


Every Other Universe

by saintscully



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Feelings, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Feels, Canon Divergence, Heavy Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, POV Sherlock Holmes, Podfic Welcome, Sad Kiss, Sherlock Whump, Unhappy Ending, Unhappy John Watson, Unhappy Sherlock Holmes, no happy ending, sad johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25218724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintscully/pseuds/saintscully
Summary: What if in every other universe John Watson leaves?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 43
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Every Other Universe

**Author's Note:**

> (partially) Betad, not Britpicked. English is my second language and I tend to make grammatical mistakes - I hope that doesn't stop you from reading and enjoying.
> 
> I have another story in the pipeline. It's 90% complete - if you'd like to be my beta please let me know :)
> 
> I'm [therealsaintscully](https://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come say hi!
> 
> PS - Many thanks to [Ariane DeVere](https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/) for her wonderful transcripts.

“And I just caught you a serial killer, more or less." Sherlock said with his usual logic and determination.

Lestrade eyed him up suspiciously.

"Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go."

Sherlock stepped away confidently, tossing the blanket on top of the hood of the nearest police car. He ducked under the police tape, never taking his eyes off of John Watson. This new, fascinating creature who had caught Sherlock Holmes completely by surprise.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful." John said while avoiding Sherlock's eyes. _He’s fascinating,_ Sherlock thinks. _And a terrible liar._

"Good shot." Sherlock stage whispers, a crooked smile making an appearance on his face.

"Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window." John nodded, demonstrating yet again just how much of a bad liar he was.

"Well, you'd know."

John gazed at him. Sherlock could tell he was about to break anyway, so he spared him.

"Need to get the powder burns off of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

John cleared his throat, nervous.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course. Of course, I am. But.. listen, Sherlock." John lifted his eyes up to meet Sherlock's. Sherlock knew that tone. He'd heard it so many times before. It was never as kind and gentle, true, but he recognizes it for what it is, nonetheless.

"This was all.. very exciting. But I think it's a bit too exciting for me." John started. "I only just returned from a war zone, and I've brought enough darkness for a lifetime with me." 

Sherlock stayed silent for a long moment, blinking to try and organize his thoughts. "Is this about what I said.. at the restaurant?" Sherlock asked, clearing his throat.

John shook his head. "No," He said, rejecting the thought. "Well..." He spoke after a moment, tilting his head to the side slightly as he reconsidered. "No, no." He shook his head again. "You're the most fascinating person I ever met, I'm just not sure I'll be able to keep up with all of this for long," John says and points in the direction of the crime scene.

"I saw plenty of close friends, important friends, die. I don't think I'll be able to..." John trailed off, lowering his head.

"I see," Sherlock said, deflated. Once he noticed how his face fell, Sherlock quickly put back the emotionless mask on his face again. Sherlock shouldn't be surprised or upset; nobody ever stayed. It was better this way. He had hoped John Watson would be different, though.

"I'll pick my stuff up tomorrow." John stole a guilty glance at Sherlock when he thought the younger man wouldn't notice; Sherlock wouldn't mention that he did. "Thank you again. Try not to get yourself killed."

Sherlock nodded, unable to speak.

With that said, John turned and walked away.

* * *

Sherlock was spread across the sofa; he hadn't moved from his spot all night. And every other night recently, to be fair. 

It was a strategic location for his current mission. He'd been gathering data for weeks inconspicuously.

In the past six weeks, John Watson had been suffering from a significant increase in his nightmares. The severity of the nightmares had also increased. They'd been living together long enough for Sherlock to have data for comparison. 

Six weeks ago, Jim Moriarty had left them by a pool, confused and relieved.

Since then, John's nightmares, which had subsided after moving in with Sherlock, returned with a vengeance. It had been wreaking havoc on John's body and mind, on his brave heart.

Sherlock tried to intervene. He had woken John up once, calling to him from the threshold of his room. John rose sweaty and disoriented and asked to be left alone.

He tried being as noisy as possible throughout the night, hoping it would send signals of safety to John's unconscious mind. _'You're not alone, I'm right here_.' 

He tried the violin, of course, many, many times. It used to work quite well though it didn't anymore.

Sherlock Holmes was worried.

§§§

The next morning when John woke up, Sherlock was hunched over his microscope at the kitchen table. Though he was engrossed with his current findings, he listened to John's footsteps as he descended the stairs, one foot at a time.

John's morning ritual was rigid and comforting. A glance at the sitting room in search of Sherlock, a yawn and a 'Morning,' a beeline to the kettle for some tea.

It took Sherlock a second to realize somebody wasn't sticking to the script. He glanced up, then froze; it almost felt like instead of blood, his heart was pumping ice through his veins.

"Sherlock," John called out quietly, looking at him from under his lashes.

In his hands, John held two large duffle bags. His shoulders slouched with a mixture of shame and guilt.

"John," Sherlock replied coldly. He knew this was coming. He'd been expecting this for weeks, and he couldn't think of anything to stop it from happening.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I can't stay here," John said and swallowed a lump in his throat.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, bitter. "Never took you for a coward, John Watson."

"It's not that." 

"Then what is it?" Sherlock lashed out, angry. 

"I'm holding you back. I'm slowing you down. And what's worse..." John paused for a second. He rehearsed this speech, Sherlock realized and, somehow, that made this whole conversation that much worse. "I've somehow put you in more risk than you've ever been before. The blog, it's getting you all this attention. It's my fault."

"Then stop writing that _stupid_ blog." Sherlock snipped.

"And then what? What's left for me without that? You're the clever one, you're the one who solves it all. Without the blog, I'm just the bloke following you around like an idiot." 

Sherlock hadn't realized that John had felt that way. John was more than that, he was Sherlock's only friend, someone he could talk to freely. Sherlock didn't have to try and soften his words for John, he just took it without a complaint, realizing that Sherlock wasn't exactly socially competent.

"We're on the cusp of getting him, John," Sherlock said. "He won't be able to hide forever. We're close to solving this."

" _You're_ close to solving this," John argued, raising his voice then lowering it back down. "I'm not doing anything. I never have." Sherlock could hear the bitterness in the older man's voice.

"If you want to tell yourself that so you can leave with a clear conscience, you can. But you're wrong."

"Am I?"

Sherlock stayed silent.

 _'What's the point of all of this? This drama.'_ He thought to himself. ' _Just go, John. As if I could ever convince you to stay.'_

John's face crumbled as he read his friend's face.

"I'm sorry," John said again.

"Yes." Sherlock said, returning his attention to the microscope.

Sherlock's eyes were stuck on the lens, unseeing. He waited until the front door shut quietly to close his eyes in defeat.

He shouldn't be surprised; nobody ever stayed. It was better this way.

He had hoped John Watson would be different, though.

* * *

Sherlock had been walking around Dartmoor and Dewer's Hollow the entire night wrung out from his panic attack. He'd been wracking his brain for hours for any possible solution.

He thought he'd been getting somewhere when he sent John to flirt with Henry's therapist, but Dr. Frankland proved to be an unexpected interruption. This derailed Sherlock's plans and he needed more time to reconsider and strategize. 

_'A cockblock, that's what the kids call it these days_ ,' his brain supplied voluntarily. ' _Perhaps I should send Dr. Frankland an anonymous thank you letter.'_

Sherlock shook his head, frustrated with the interruption. _None of this matters now!_ he wanted to yell at his brain. _There's work to do!_

The jet black of the night faded away as the sun rose and it became dawn before Sherlock realized that he would have to confront John at some point. No use in avoiding it, work came first. They would end this argument like they always do, and ride back to London in a pregnant, bottled up silence. 

He went back to the inn, bracing himself to face John's quietly suffering face. When he opened the door to the room, he froze, not having suspected what he was faced with. The room was empty. The bed was not slept in, and John's bags were gone.

Disappointed and hurt, Sherlock's heart hardened. If John thought it was appropriate to leave for London without a text or a call, Sherlock wouldn't bother chasing him.

He brushed the new information aside. He had a case to solve. It didn't matter that John was absent, honestly. He was the genius of the two anyway.

The case was solved by late afternoon, Lestrade at Sherlock's side as they chased Dr. Frankland through the thick forest. When Dr. Frankland blew up, Sherlock felt a slight relief. At least John was spared the sight of another bomb bursting into action.

§§§

He was on the first train to London the following morning. By the time the cab dropped him off at 221B, his anger had subsided, and he was anxious to tell John everything that transpired the past 24 hours. he couldn't wait to tell him how he solved, it how brilliant he was. That was John's favorite part, anyway.

He ascended the stairs quickly, opening the door. "John!" he called out.

His mind reacted before his body did. He was still heading to John's room before he noticed the minuscule changes to the flat.

John's belongings are gone.

Mrs. Hudson, who had been climbing the stairs slowly, looked at Sherlock. Her brown orbs were moist from holding back tears. She was probably her when he left, shocked by his anger and unable to stop him.

"He's gone, Sherlock." She said, shaking her head in disbelief. "He just packed his bags and left."

Sherlock stared at her, unhearing.

"What happened?" She questioned softly.

 _Nothing happened_. He wanted to say. _I was just being myself_. _I was sure he knows better by now._

He shouldn't be surprised; nobody ever stayed. It was better this way.

He had hoped John Watson would be different, though.

* * *

Last time, he learned that moments stretch and stretch when you're about to die. It's probably the brain's version of kicking as screaming, determined to survive as long as possible.

Maybe the purpose is to allow you to say goodbye, to catch the last glimpse of the person you love.

Right now, the person he loves is screaming at his murderous wife.

"Do not touch him, Mary!" John yells as multiple hands touch Sherlock's body in an attempt to move him to a stretcher.

"I'm trying to help!" Mary calls as John removes her hands forcibly.

John's laughter is a miserable, high-pitched thing. "Help!" he cries. "So help me.." he stops when he notices the stretcher is moving towards the stairs.

"Do not come after us." Sherlock recognizes John's deadliest inflection when he hears it. He imagines the accompanying finger-pointing even in death's grip. 

The stretcher is lifted towards the ambulance, Sherlock's legs towards its doors. He sees a paramedic bodily stopping John from joining them in the ambulance.

"Sorry Sir, family only." The paramedic says.

John scoffs in panic, then says. "I am..." He stops for a split second, then regroups. "I'm his doctor."

"Sorry Sir, hospital policy. Immediate family members only. We have a doctor on board."

"I'm his doctor. You can't prevent me from coming with you!".

John's face is filled with rage. Mary shows up behind him. She can sense the impending outburst as well. 

"John, stop. You're being unreasonable!"

Sherlock's breath catches at Mary's choice of words. She really does know how to push John Watson's buttons.

John's body is shaking, radiating with anger and frustration. Sherlock sees John looking desperately back and forth between Mary and the man in the ambulance.

It's then that Sherlock's blood freezes.

John's face turns to stone. He looks devastated beyond repair.

Sherlock assumed something like this might happen, of course. It was a risk he needed to take for the price of revealing Mary's real face. He knew John wouldn't be able to bear the betrayal by the two most important people in his life. John's tolerance, much like Sherlock's grasp on reality, is vanishing quickly.

"John..!" Sherlock cries for him weakly, his voice barely audible. He has so many things to tell him.

It was at that moment that his brain had had enough. He sinks quietly into a white, thick fog.

§§§

Five days later, Sherlock wakes up from the same white, thick fog.

He's in a hospital room, vague memories resurfacing along with his consciousness.

He asks for water. He's not allowed yet, a voice explains. He can have ice chips instead.

The voice is Mycroft's, Sherlock realizes and frowns. How hateful. He opens his eyes and turns to his brother.

"Where's John?" Sherlock croaks, his voice rough with disuse.

Mycroft doesn't respond.

"Mycroft." Sherlock demands, as much as he's able.

Mycroft looks to the ground.

"What?!" Sherlock demands.

"He's gone. He left. He’d instructed Mary that he's to be left alone."

Sherlock attempts a bitter laugh. "Yes, I would imagine he would."

"By everyone." Mycroft adds sternly.

The bitter smile leaves Sherlock's face. When he shivers, he knows it's not due to being resurrected twice in a fortnight.

"Every man has his limits," Mycroft says darkly. "I'm afraid you and Mrs. Watson found his."

The room is deathly silent for the rest of the night. Sherlock wishes for the thick, white fog to return.

He shouldn't be surprised. Nobody ever stays. It's better this way.

He did hope John Watson would be different, though.

* * *

John Watson was climbing the stairs to 221B one Monday afternoon.

 _Unplanned and unexpected_ , Sherlock noted.

It had been four days since John last appeared at the flat, he and a heavily pregnant Mary. John had spent the entire time blogging about that dreary Mona Lisa's case and grilling Sherlock about his plans for Moriarty. 

Sherlock plans were and still was, to wait. To wait until someone else made a move.

John didn't like that plan. Sherlock could see him tense nervously at the suggestion. He'd put on a show for the sake of his wife, for reasons yet unknown to Sherlock.

Now he was here.

He barely had a foot in the door when Sherlock deduced his current condition. John, tired, hungry and aching for an adrenaline rush, had left his house frustrated and exhausted from three straight days of shouting and arguing with his wife. He was pissed off.

They had been arguing about baby names, godparents (John wanted Sherlock to be their child's godfather, Mary didn't), the colors for the nursery, the crib he hadn't assembled yet despite promising to, Mary's planned maternity leave. They'd been fighting about marriage counseling before the baby came (John wanted to, Mary didn't) and about John seeing Sherlock more than he sees his own wife.

 _'Not my problem_ ,' Sherlock reminded himself.

"Still high?" John snipped, in lieu of a proper greeting.

"I wish," Sherlock shot back.

John huffed in disbelief. He headed to the kitchen table, going over the mail.

"There are unpaid bills here," John said, unimpressed, and Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment. "Should probably pay them."

"Probably." Sherlock spat back though he wasn't really paying attention to what his friend was saying.

Sherlock wasn't actually angry until John walked through the door. He supposed he was just mirroring John's mood. They'd been at each other's throats since the tarmac, whenever Mary wasn't around. John was nervous about his baby's imminent arrival, upset about the drugs, and about being kept in the dark again. Sherlock was angry because, one, he could be, and, two, he hated all the drama.

John started to bustle around in the kitchen, making as much noise as one could possibly make while making tea. 

" _Do you mind_ ," Sherlock hissed. "I'm trying to _think_."

"I can't find the sugar."

"Then go make tea in your own house, _Doctor_ ," Sherlock shot at him, the sounds grating at his nerves.

A cabinet door slammed shut in a fit of John's anger. Sherlock exhaled, annoyed at being bothered with such nonsense. He got up and walked towards the kitchen cabinets. When he got there, Sherlock towered over John, a reminder of his physical superiority. He pulled the sugar bowl out from one of the top cabinets.

John huffed. "Janine re-arranging the kitchen again?"

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed with wrath. "No disrespect, John, but why are you here?"

John's face turned steely. He was itching for a fight, just waiting for a chance to blow up. "I think I deserve an explanation."

"About _what_ , praytell?"

"About the drugs. About leaving for good and only telling me about a minute before taking off. About choosing to be a sitting duck waiting for Moriarty to attack. How's that for a start?"

"What would you like to know about the drugs, John? That the man you've known to be a drug addict for years succumbed yet again while leaving for a suicide mission? A suicide mission he didn't know about until he left prison for the airport?" Sherlock threw the words at John's face, nearly spitting.

"And what of my decision to wait? I know exactly what I'm doing, John." Sherlock continues. "And even if I didn't, it's _my_ work, _my_ life, _my_ decision-"

John raises his hand, frustrated.

"Your life?!" John cried. "What about my life? I'm just as involved in this as you are. I get a say in this!" He moved closer to Sherlock, pointing a finger at him. "'Your life', ha! The life you've been so carelessly throwing away this past year, over and over again. Like it means nothing! It's like you want nothing more than to die, and I can't take it anymore, Sherlock, I can't!"

"Nobody asked you to," Sherlock says coldly, and leaned in even closer to John's face. "If I'd like to spend my time as a 'sitting duck' it's my right to do so, John. I'm so very good at it by now," Sherlock said scathingly as he prepared for his coup de grâce. "I've been doing that since the day I met _your wife_."

John's eyes widened with sheer horror at that, his entire body freezing mid-movement. They stared at each other for a moment, both breathing heavily from effort and anger.

Inhaling deeply, John grabbed Sherlock by his lapels, crashing their lips together. Stunned, Sherlock moved his lips away, but his face betrayed nothing. John read that as a silent agreement and pushed Sherlock against the counter, clinging to Sherlock's body. Their lips crashed into each other again.

 _'Oh, John,'_ Sherlock thinks. ' _You've gone and made everything worse.'_

Sherlock detached himself, shaking his head furiously and moving away from John, towards the counter.

John's hands refused to disengage, balled at Sherlock's sides.

He took a few breaths in an attempt to regroup, but John spoke before Sherlock had a chance to. 

He looked at him with big, pleading eyes. "I can't do this with her anymore, Sherlock. It's not working." He said quietly, shaking his head.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He knew he was going to regret his next words for the rest of his life.

"I can't help you with that, John."

John's hands left Sherlock's body as if Sherlock had burnt him. He looked shocked and beaten, shaking his head in disbelief. His dangerous, misleading smile made an appearance. Sherlock braced himself for another fight, but John backed away as if looking at a lion approaching him from afar. 

He rushed out of the flat without another word, slamming the door behind him.

One day later, Sherlock received a text message from Mary.

**_John is gone. What did you do?_ **

He laughed bitterly at the blame she laid at this feet. _What did I do?_ He wanted to tell her. _What did_ you _do?_

He didn't respond. He never replied to any of Mary's messages ever again. There was no point.

He shouldn't be surprised; nobody ever stayed. It was better this way.

He had hoped John Watson would be different, though.

* * *

"Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. No-one made her do it. No-one could ever make her do anything ..." John stopped for a minute. "...but the point is: you did not kill her."

"In saving my life, she conferred a value on it." Sherlock says, his eyes to the floor. "It is a currency I do not know how to spend."

"It is what it is." John's voice is cold and final. Then he takes a big breath. "Uh, I’m tomorrow, six ’til ten. I’ll see you then."

John got up to leave.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked, incredulous. 

_Is that all?'_ Sherlock wondered. _The big conversation after that life-shaking event ends like that?_

Sherlock looked at John, not for the first wondering if it was merely a case of mixed signals. Whether it was his unique brain simply misunderstanding the situation, misreading cues.

 _Sure, I was just assured I didn't kill his wife. I partly know understand that myself by now._ He thought.

But shouldn't one apologize after cracking a friend's rib? It didn't sound right, otherwise.

His friend bruised his face and his ribs, the wounds still visible and aching. A friend who hadn't bothered to apologize for inflicting any of this on him.

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, then made up his mind.

"I said I'll be back tomorrow." John clarifies, turning to grab his coat.

"I don't think so." 

"What?" John turned to look at Sherlock behind him.

"I was rather hoping for an apology," Sherlock says, sounding awfully English. "I deserve one. I thank you for acknowledging I didn't kill Mary, but what you did was painful in more ways than one, John." 

"Sherlock-" John started. "Of course I apologize. Of course, I assume you know. That you understand."

Sherlock lowered his eyes. _'Why would I know?'_ He wondered. _'Don't I deserve to be told?'_

 _"_ Understand what, exactly?"

"That I was upset. That I was scared, and.." John stuttered.

“Mary never apologized either.” He said, finally letting go of the things that have been eating away at him for years. "Never once, not even I killed Magnussen."

Sherlock braces himself, the words he's about to speak harsh and painful. "I suppose you two deserved each other. Brave enough to hurt me, but never to apologize."

"Sherlock..." John gaped.

Sherlock raised sad eyes at John and shook his head.

"Sherlock." John tried again but no words came.

 _Fight for me, John._ Sherlock thought. _Demand that I'm wrong, prove my mistakes._

The look they exchanged contained everything they ever needed to say to each other. None of it could be helped right now. Their friendship had reached a breaking point; it couldn't be repaired anymore.

Sherlock grabbed hold of the open door, signaling John to leave.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock said.

He tried his very best to make him happy, to get him to stay.

But enough is enough and the price he's required to pay for John's friendship is now too much to pay. 

Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat as he closed the door behind John's moving figure.

He had hoped John Watson would be different, though.

He wasn't.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, you're right. There *is* a Fight The Future reference in this story. If you don't agree that John Watson = Dana Scully I don't think we can be friends ;)


End file.
